Weight of Mercy

Deb Richardson-Moore

Description

-What kind of church nails its doors shut? -That would be the Triune Mercy Center. -And I am its pastor.- For 27 years Deb was a journalist in the Deep South. Then she retrained as a Baptist pastor, and accepted a post at the Triune Mercy Center, a run-down inner-city church where the homeless gathered. It was a shock. Gradually she learned whom she could trust ' and whom she couldn't. Sometimes the best person to handle a situation was a drug addict. Sometimes Jesus had the face of a prostitute. All were fiercely welcomed into this bewildering church family. Full of color and incident, Deb's story is a testament to messy grace and the presence of the Spirit in the hard places of the world. "Deb Richardson-Moore is one of my 'most admired' people. I love her heart, her experience-learned wisdom, her honesty and her passion. You will praise God for the work He is doing at the Triune Mercy Center." ' Ruth Graham, author of In Every Pew Sits a Broken Heart -At the Triune Center, Deb not only found Christ among 'the least of these', but she also experienced Christ drawing her into His grand drama of redemption. Here is a loving, realistic account of a life commandeered for the work of God's Kingdom.-' Will Willimon, Bishop, The United Methodist Church and Professor of Christian Ministry, Duke University Divinity School -Immensely moving and inspiring, reminding us of the power of grace.-' Patrick Regan OBE, Founder and CEO of XLP -Causes you to see people in a way you never would have realised. Real, authentic and recommended reading.-' Roy Crowne, Executive Director, Hope

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie

Informations

• Publié par: Lion Hudson
• Date de parution: 08 octobre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780857213877
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2012 by Deb Richardson-Moore
This edition copyright © 2012 Lion Hudson
The right of Deb Richardson-Moore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Monarch Books an imprint of Lion Hudson plc Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England Tel: [phone] Fax: [phone] Email: [e-mail] www.lionhudson.com
ISBN 978 0 85721 229 0 e-ISBN 978 0 85721 387 7
Unless otherwise stated, Scripture quotations taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan and Hodder & Stoughton Limited. All rights reserved. The ‘NIV’ and ‘New International Version’ trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society. UK trademark number 1448790.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover image: iStockphoto/cStar55.
Dedication
To my mom and dad,
Doris Richardson and the late Hewer Richardson And to Vince, Dustin, Taylor, and Madison, whose love and steadfastness allow me to minister elsewhere
Table of Contents
Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Author’s Note Acknowledgments Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Epilogue
Author’s Note
This is a personal memoir, and as such, is told from my perspective. Other people coming in and out of Triune during these years may have told a different story or many different stories. While all of the stories I tell are true, I have no way of knowing if the stories told to me were true. That, in fact, was my challenge.
Because of privacy issues, I have frequently changed names and identifying characteristics. Where I have used a single name, it may have been changed to protect privacy. However, where I have used a first and last name, it is correct.

 
 

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.”
Matthew 23:23, NRSV
Acknowledgments
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Elaine Nocks, Lynn Cusick, Lynne Lucas, and Matt Matthews for their early and constant encouragement. And thanks to later readers Cecile Michon, Toni Masters, Oscar Masters, Kathy Vass, and Toni Pate for their excitement.
Thanks to Rich Butler and Carl Muller, who probably have no idea how much their kindnesses meant. But I do.
Certainly, I owe tremendous gratitude to David Gay who’s been with me every step of the way, but also to current staff members Pat Parker, Don Austin, Diane Mensch, Shannon McGaugh, Kathy Sharp, Greg Koon, and Bon Secours St. Francis Health System employees Jean Lilley and Connie Haudricourt. You guys are the best. Alfred Johnson, I still miss you.
Thanks to Triune board members, past and present, and all the volunteers who make our work possible – and even pleasant. But most of all, thanks to the Triune parishioners, housed and homeless, who have made this place their church home.
I appreciate my colleagues at the Collegeville Institute for their kind words – and laughter at all the right places.
Thanks to Tony Collins and the folks at Monarch Books who were the first to talk about the book rather than my lack of “a platform.”
I am grateful to my parents and to Rick, Candy, and Maggie Richardson who came to Triune despite our lack of a children’s program. And to Lori, Robert, Sam, and Robin Bradley, just because.
And finally, to Vince, Dustin, Taylor, and Madison. You know why.
Prologue
I HAD THE DREAM AGAIN , the one where I’m in the back seat of a speeding car and it dawns on me there’s no one driving. Somehow the car remains on the road but I don’t know how, and the scenery whizzing by paralyzes me.
I see a red light, and look around frantically for oncoming cars. There are none and my car whooshes through the intersection. My heart is hammering and I wonder if I should climb over the seat to take the steering wheel, but I’m confused and heavy-limbed. I see a curve ahead and I panic, but the car hugs the white line and races on. Apparently the hairpin has triggered a ringing, and I turn to look behind me for a police car, maybe, or an ambulance. But those vehicles don’t ring, exactly, do they? My mind isn’t working properly, and I can’t figure out where that ringing is coming from.
I rolled to Vince’s side of the bed, and clawed my way to consciousness, the ringing rising to the surface with me. Vince was already in the dining room, eating cereal and reading the newspaper, but our bedroom remained coolly shadowed. I could have slept another three hours on this Thursday off, if not for that ringing.
“Hello,” I answered, my voice sleep-clogged.
“This is the alarm company. The alarm at 222 Rutherford Street has been activated. A police unit is on the way.”
I groaned. I’d been on the job just eight weeks and this was at least the eighth alarm. Squirrels, it seemed, could set it off. Mice. Spiders. Not to mention, men.
The facilities manager typically got the first call, but he was on vacation. I tugged on a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater. The morning looked foggy and gray, though it was late September, a summer month in this part of the South. I brushed my teeth and ran my fingers through my hair, not bothering with make-up. That’ll serve the intruder right, I thought irritably.
As I drove the seven miles from my house in the suburbs to the church just blocks from Main Street, the scenery changed from trimmed lawns and shaded houses to industrial buildings, windowless bars, a nursing home, abandoned gas stations. The closer I got, the deeper the dread settled in my stomach. I hated this job. I hated the creaky old church building. I hated what I’d gotten into, and I was close to hating God for getting me into it.
I repeated a mantra I used to soothe myself. Eight weeks down, and what, maybe thirty to go? Forty-four at the outside. I doubted I could last a year.
The early morning traffic was brisk on four-lane Rutherford Street, pronounced Rul-therford, a denizen of Old Greenville corrected me recently, rolling the absent “l” in his throat. I’m sure he summers on Pawley’s – make that Pahhwl-ee’s – Island, which prints bumper stickers declaring itself “arrogantly shabby,” if that tells you anything.
Old Greenville passed this church every day. But it didn’t stop.
The red brick sanctuary was handsome, especially compared to the nearby three-story education building with its broken windows and rusted air-conditioners discoloring the façade in green streams. It was a brave little church, too, hanging on in this outpost of a dying mill village; I’d give it that.
Rutherford Street was separated from the sanctuary stoop by a sidewalk and a strip of dead grass. No one was stirring at the Salvation Army Thrift Store across the street, but Tommy’s Country Ham House next door was filled with a breakfast crowd of businessmen, blue-collar workers, and retirees getting their day started with bacon and eggs, toast and grits, coffee and conversation. I parked in the pitted lot behind the church and trotted up the sidewalk and around the corner to the sanctuary’s side door. This morning’s alarm was not the work of critters. Someone had kicked in the heavy wooden door, splintering the doorjamb. Someone, no doubt, who had eaten in the church’s soup kitchen, taken clothes from its closet, received groceries from its pantry.
A police officer met me at the broken door, and together we entered the chapel, hushed and lovely even with its leaky roof, streaks of mildew and blistered plaster. Despite the dimness, I could see that the brass cross and offering plates were undisturbed. The stained glass windows picturing the tablets of the Ten Commandments, Jesus in Gethsemane, and pinwheel designs in blues, golds and reds, were untouched. The honey-colored pews were as they’d been the previous Sunday, only empty now of sleeping bodies reclined against bedrolls.
The young policeman and I walked in silence down the maroon carpeting past the raised stage where the wooden pulpit stood, flanked by the thrones that pass for chairs in the world of religious furnishings. A paneled door leading to a rear hallway was flung open. There we found what the burglar was after – a plain, waist-high cabinet of cleaning supplies. Bottles of floor cleaner and cans of Pledge tumbled over the wood floor. The policeman raised an eyebrow.
“He was looking for something to huff,” I said.
He nodded, and asked what I wanted to do about the busted door. He then waited outside while I ran down to the basement and found a board, hammer, and nails. He and I pulled the listing door into its shattered doorjamb, and he pounded the board snugly across.
He stepped back, and smiled sympathetically. “Are you gonna be all right?” he asked. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and made a mental note to call the police chief and tell him how kind this young man had been.
I leaned against the brick wall of the breezeway, where the smell of urine wafted through the morning mist. I stared at the ugly patch job, and wondered: What kind of church nails its doors shut?
That would be the Triune